I’ve manifested
an after midnight symphony,
looping mp3’s of my own eulogies
and consecutively callousing
and shaking hands with death,
the feeling brings a paradox of
finding warmth in cold palms
and it cuts between relation and
addiction to a palpable misery,
shot glasses of blood trying to make
home in my throat
drawing *****
and neglecting to force
warmth back inside,
left cold
and red hands ramble
abstract frigidness
on a livid mess mimicking
a sorry excuse for a heartbeat,
and all i’ve been doing is
touching myself
and each fingertip friction
formalizes an addiction to
a wintry contagious

She was a Black Rose.
A beautiful rarity,
and the essence of despair,
all at once.

Is dreaming of mountains better than climbing them?

How many more can I climb in my frontal cortex than bleed on in person?

Is it the same with relationships? I saw a girl once at the market and I swear I could taste the next 50 years of our lives together in the air between us.

Could 50 real years ever taste that sweet?

I hope someday to say

"It does, but only when you stop fantasizing and start living"

It is a draining job you see
Absorbing all your energy...